Heroes are Overrated
by Jakia
Summary: AU. Four times Alistair and Elissa could have fallen in love, even if they hadn't been the last two Grey Wardens of Ferelden. Four chapters. Alistair x Cousland.
1. The Bann's Fiancee

**Universe 1:** Alistair is never sent away to the Chantry; the Howes never betray the Couslands; the Blight never occurs. All is well in Ferelden--except that Elissa Cousland is 25 years old and still not married.

* * *

**The Bann's Fiancée**

Elissa Cousland did _not_ want to marry Bann Teagan.

It was not the fact that he was a horrible man: far from it. Knowing her father, he was probably polite, kind, utterly gorgeous, and charming to boot.

It was just the _principle_ of the thing. The thought of arranged marriages left a sour taste in Elissa's mouth even when she _wasn't_ the one getting married.

The fact that he was just a Bann, too, made it seem so _insulting._

_He's the King's Uncle._ She could hear her father whisper in her mind. Since her mother's untimely death, getting Elissa married seemed to be her father's only concern. _Should Calian and Anora fail to produce an heir, Teagan is most likely to inherit the throne._

And if they did manage to have a child? Well, she didn't mind spending the rest of her days in some backwater village, barefoot and pregnant, did she?

…She needed to get the hell out of here, _now._

Which was why she was in Redcliffe's stables, somewhere close to midnight, trying to saddle up a horse in darkness.

"Careful there, Miss."

She whirled.

Oh, it was just a stable boy.

Well, stable _man_, more likely. He looked to be her age, with shaggy brown-red hair and a face full of stubble. In the low light of his lamp, he seemed quite handsome, his eyes twinkling in the firelight. He was well-built, too, for a stable boy, with toned arms and a gentle smile.

"Bessie's a bit stubborn," he explained to her gently, resting a hand on the black mare she tried to saddle. "And she's likely to kick you in the stomach for waking her in the middle of the night."

Elissa blinked at him. "Who are _you?"_

"I'm Alistair." He laughed at her charmingly. "The better question is who are _you, _dear lady, sneaking into the Arl of Redcliffe's stables in the middle of the night like some sort of sneaky…witch-thief."

She couldn't help herself: she smiled back at him. "I'm Elissa, and I'm, ah, running away."

He laughed. "That makes sense. I ran away once myself. Or I was going to, anyway. I ended up locking myself in a cage on accident."

Elissa giggled. "How did you manage that?"

He grinned. "Funny story..."

Elissa didn't run away that night. She stayed up talking with Alistair instead. And when she tried to run away the next evening, she ended up staying up talking with Alistair _again_. The same thing happened the next night, and the next, and the next.

Three weeks before her wedding to Teagan, Elissa finally managed to run away. That time, Alistair went with her.

When he received a letter from his daughter informing him of her wedding and the arrival of his future grandchild, Teyrn Cousland just smiled, and figured there were worst things to have as a son-in-law than a stable boy and a bastard prince.

* * *

A/N: More AUs coming. I already have one half written.


	2. The Arl's Wife

**Universe Two:** Arl Howe died before he could betray the Couslands. Nathaniel took his place as the Arl of Amarathine, and Elissa Cousland married him out of friendship between their families and to help him govern the arling. Alistair is a Templar in Amarathine hunting down the apostate, Anders. The Blight and all its misfortunes still occurred, but didn't really affect Alistair or Elissa. Loghain is the King-Regent of Ferelden given the end of the Theirin bloodline with Calian's death, Alistair notwithstanding as a Templar.

(also, slight bump up in the ratings. Not NSFW, but, uh, steamier.)

* * *

**The Arl's Wife**

Sometimes, she regrets marrying him.

When Arl Rendon Howe died suddenly of a heart attack, Nathaniel rushed home from the Free Marshes. As the eldest, the arling of Amarathine now belonged to him now. It was his duty—neigh, his _responsibility—_to oversee the governing of Amarathine, to take care of the land his forefather's founded.

He hadn't the foggiest idea what he was doing.

So when he asked her, on bended knees, to marry him, how could she have said no? The Howes had long since been the dearest of friends to the Couslands: to decline would have been insulting, especially considering Nathaniel didn't need a wife so much as he needed a friend and an ally, someone who could stand beside him and help him govern.

So here she was, one year later, Elissa Howe, Arlessa of Amarathine, wife to the good Arl.

Sometimes, she regretted it.

Not that Nathaniel was a bad husband, or mean, or ugly. He treated her with great kindness, showering her with gifts and affection. Their lovemaking was pleasant, if not the most exciting thing in the world. Truly, he was a great friend to her.

And there in lied the problem.

Maker's blood, how selfish could she really be? Here she was, married to a high-standing lord, with all the power and pleasures a woman of her standing could expect to have, and all she could do was complain! It wasn't Nathaniel's fault she didn't love him.

It's not like he didn't _try_, either. When they first married, it was all flowers and sweet nothings and compliments. He tried to love her, and—who knows?—maybe he still feels genuine affection for her. All she knows is, for her part, she does not love him.

It would be nice though, to be loved. To have a man look at you like you were the sun in his sky, his very reason for living.

Mostly, she's tired of being alone. Nathaniel is distant even on good days, and that's just when he's in the Keep. Most days he spends travelling the countryside, leaving her alone in Amarathine to govern while he's out adventuring.

In a crowded castle full of people, Elissa has never felt more alone.

* * *

He is not what she expects a Templar to be.

She remembers the Templars from her childhood as being very serious, unsmiling men in full plate armor. She remembers pious, armored knights with scowls on their faces as they searched Highever high and low for the hidden apostate.

This Ser Alistair isn't what she's used to a Templar being.

And that may be why she feels so attracted to him.

He's handsome, sure, but Elissa is _use_ to handsome men. They're a dime a dozen in the Keep. His attractiveness shouldn't affect her this much. Maybe it's the way he smiles at her, wide-eyed and honest, or maybe it's the way she catches his gaze following her as she waltzes in front of him, the perfect noble hostess.

Despite her rather estranged relationship with her husband, she's never felt the need to take on another lover before. She's thinking about it now, though: thinking how nice it must be to wake up to his smile, how warm his arms must feel, how _lonely_ she's been in Amarathine—

She has no excuse when she invites him to dine with her in private, away from the prying eyes of his fellows and her servants. All she knows is that her husband is away to Denerim, advising King Loghain on matters of the state, and won't be back for days—plenty of time for her and the knight to get to know one another—

Ser Alistair, for his part, accepts her offer.

And it's wonderful fun, just dining and laughing and smiling. For a Templar, Ser Alistair has a remarkable sense of humor and an adorable smile. She hasn't laughed this hard in a long time.

She had no explanation for why she leans forward and kisses him. Maybe it's the wine, making her tipsy and impairing her judgment. Maybe it's the way he keeps _looking_ at her, like he thinks she's beautiful or something. Either way, one minute they are giggling like schoolgirls over a silly innuendo (she will never think of lampposts the same way again) and the next she is in his lap, hands tangled in his hair while she kisses him, moaning and gasping and—_oh._

He's not the best at this, but that doesn't really matter at this point. Some dark part of her mind reminds her that Templars take vows of chastity, that she's a married woman, that they _really _shouldn't be doing this, but he hasn't pulled away from her yet, and seems to be enjoying this as much as she is.

Which makes it all the more difficult when he finally pulls away from her, gasping for breath.

"I don't—" he whispers, his breath ragged and uneven, and she bites her lips in fear of rejection. She barely notices his hand still caressing her neck, tracing her collarbone. "I mean, I want—I want _you._"

He blushes adorably. "I want you. Do you—I mean, are you sure? I've never done this, I just—" his hand keeps tracing down her neck until he reaches the edge of her dress where breast and cloth meet. "Maker's breath, I'm making a fool of myself, aren't I?"

It's okay, though. She understands. He's thirty years old, and this is his first time being with a woman. Personally, she's rather flattered that he thinks she's worth breaking his vows for.

She kisses him tenderly on the lips. "It's okay. Follow me."

She takes him by the hand and guides him down the hall to her bedroom. She realizes—a little too late, really—that anyone could have seen them—but it's late at night and the halls are empty, and as the door to the bedchambers are closed she finds herself kissing him again, pressed tightly against a wall. His hands are braver than they were in the kitchens, grazing her arse and grasping at her neck, holding her as close to him as she dares. She comes to the frustrating conclusion that she doesn't really know _how_ to remove heavy plate armor—she and Nathaniel both prefer light leathers—but it's in the way of progress and she wants it gone _now_.

He laughs, and shows her the strings holding the armor closed. Together, they remove the heavy plate until he's standing there in nothing but his padding, undershirt, and smallclothes.

She's surprised at how bulky he still seems, how his arms are nothing but muscle, or how in the soft candlelight his skin seems darker, or—

He must have noticed her staring, because soon his face turns red again. "I think, my lady, that you are overdressed."

She smiles at him. "Why, I do think you are right, good ser."

It's a wonderful thing, watching his reaction as she slides off the dress. For every inch of pale skin revealed, his eyes follow with reverence. Their lovemaking is beautiful—she can't get over this feeling of adoration that follows his every kiss, every tiny touch enchanting, like she was some rare and wonderful thing amidst all the darkness in his life.

_This must be what Andraste felt when she was visited by the Maker._ She thinks, heresy and sin forgotten as Alistair worships her body with his mouth. _Like she was the last good thing in this world, and He wanted to savor it._

_

* * *

  
_

When she wakes up the next morning, he's already dressed, and in his hand there is a single red rose.

"Here," he whispers, placing the rose on her chest directly between her breasts. "You know what this is?"

She smiles up at him, fondling the rose gently. "You're new weapon of choice?"

He laughs. "Oh yes, I can see it now. Fear me, apostates! Watch as I overpower you with my rosy sent! …They'll never see it coming, you know. I bet they're shaking in their boots."

She giggles, and leans forward to capture his lips with her own. It's a sweet kiss, soft and loving, unlike the mad passion they shared last night.

It doesn't last, however, and as he pulls away a thought occurs to her. "You're leaving." She whispers in disbelief, even though the fact should be obvious. Of course he's leaving. What, does she expect him to stay? Abandon his duty to the Chantry? Not to mention how her husband would react when he finally came home—_Never mind the Templar, darling: I've decided I like him better than you._

It doesn't seem fair, though, regardless. Here she's finally found a man worth loving, and he's _leaving _her_._

"I am," he whispers, brushing a hair off her face. "It's my duty—there is still an apostate I need to capture, and I—I can't stay." He kisses her forehead. "I want to, but I can't. We both knew it wouldn't last forever."

"And—and the rose?" She holds the flower close to her heart, as if it's the most treasured jewel in Ferelden.

He brushes her cheek with his thumb. "I wanted you to have something to remember me by. And to say thank you, for last night. It—it meant everything to me."

She smiles at him sadly. "Me too."

They kiss one more time, and then Ser Alistair walks out of her life for good.

* * *

Nine months later, she gives birth to his son, unknowing bringing into the world the last illegitimate heir of the Theirin bloodline.

If Nathaniel ever realizes that her son is not his own, he doesn't say anything about it, and Elissa counts that as a small victory. Every time she looks at her son's nose or gentle smile, she is reminded of her Templar, and wonders where he is, what he's doing, if he's thinking about her, if he ever found that silly apostate he came to Amarathine looking for.

It's a good memory, after all; one that gave her a son.

She would not trade it for the world.


	3. The Jewel Thief

**Universe Three:** Denerim, many years in the future. Alistair is (Batman's) the caped crusader Duncan's apprentice, sent to spy on a girl known only as (Catwoman) the Grey Warden, an accomplished jewel thief, to see if she would join their (Justice League) Griffin League. Superhero AU FTW!

**A/N**: I totally didn't intend to write this chapter, but then it hit me and I couldn't let it go. So there's going to be five chapters instead. Which is fine by me, I love AUs.

Also, if someone were to draw fanart of this I would be legally obligated to owe them by first born and a significant portion of my soul. Just saying.

* * *

**The Jewel Thief**

Sometimes, Alistair wondered if Duncan simply hadn't lost his Maker-forsaken mind.

Really, a _jewel thief?_ What use did the Griffon League have for _jewel thief?_ Weren't they the good guys?

Then again, Duncan had a remarkable ability to judge a person's character beyond what Alistair could understand. The man was also notorious for withholding crucial information until the absolute last minute possible.

Still, anyone with _eyes_ could know Alistair wasn't good at the whole sneaky thing. Give him bad guys to beat up, and he'd given them a thorough thrashing. But ask him to use the grace and stealth needed to sneak away as a spy? …Yet Duncan sent Alistair here anyway, not to capture the infamous cat burglar, but to _spy_ on her instead. To see if _she would make a good recruit!_

Sometimes, Alistair wondered if Duncan had lost it completely.

_The Grey Warden,_ they called her, though Alistair didn't know why. Nothing in her file seemed to suggest she was very warden-y—or very grey, for that matter. For all that he knew about the woman, she was just an accomplished jewel thief—a talented thief, but a thief nonetheless.

Though he had to confess, she looked _fantastic_ in a tight leather catsuit. _Maker's breath._ Talk about a woman.

And those heels! How the woman managed to jump rooftop to rooftop in thigh-high boots would remain a mystery to Alistair for the rest of his days.

If the sisters at the monastery knew what he was thinking about right now…

He was so engrossed in his thoughts that he did not notice the woman he was suppose to be watching disappeared entirely, until he felt the sharp sting of a dagger at his throat.

"Well," She whispered seductively in his ear from behind, her dagger still far too close to his throat. "What do we have here? The Dragon Prince, I wonder?"

Ugh. Who thought of that stupid name? _Oh right, Duncan._ The Griffin himself.

"You don't look much like a dragon." She commented, sounding more amused than dangerous. "You look more like an overgrown lizard." She slapped his arse. _Andraste's flaming sword!_ "Tail and all."

"What I want to know," she asked, her dagger remaining close to his jugular. "Is what the Griffin's _sidekick_ wants with little ol' me."

Sidekick? _Sidekick?!_ He wasn't a sidekick! He was a—

Okay, he was pretty much a sidekick. But _still._

"Know that I could kill you in about ten different ways before you could reach your sword." She smiled at him in a flirting manner, dropping the dagger. "So start talking. Now."

"Griffin sent me to spy on you."

"Hmm." She whispered. "I figured that. How about you tell me _why?_"

He frowned at her. "I'm not at liberty to say."

He barely blinked before her dagger was pointed on him again. "Wrong answer."

He flinched. "I promise, I'm not here to hurt you."

She merely snorted at him. "And I suppose I'm just suppose to believe that? Everyone knows old man Griffin means to clean up these streets—what could he possibly want with a jewel thief like me?"

He couldn't help but chuckle. "Lady, I wish I knew."

He noticed (he could still hear Duncan pounding the lessons into his head, _details, Alistair, you must remember the details!)_ how she twitched ever so slightly at being called lady. That was odd. Was she high-born or something? A noble? If so, why on Thedas would she being out stealing _jewels?_

Wait—wait, it made _sense._ Suddenly it all clicked together for him. _Grey. Black and white together. Good __**and**__ evil. Warden. One who takes care of others. A guardian. "We're the __**good**__ guys."_

She didn't keep the jewels she stole.

In fact, if Alistair had to hazard a guess, all the money she looted from corpses, all the chests full of gold she broke into and stole, probably went to saving orphans and rescuing kittens.

_Duncan, you are a crazy genius._

"You're laughing." She pressed the dagger tighter to his throat. "Rather bold of you to laugh at a woman with a dagger to your throat. I find that attractive in a man. A bit for your thoughts?"

"Oh, it's nothing." He grinned widely at her. "I just realized why D—why _Griffin_ wanted me to spy on you."

"Oh?" She asked. "Care to share this bit of information, _ser_?"

"Nah." He chuckled at her. "You'll find out sooner or later."

Her pretty blue eyes narrowed at him. "Assuming I don't kill you first."

"You won't kill me." He whispered, his voice husky. He hadn't realized how tantalizingly close she was. "In fact, I bet you don't kill anyone."

Before she could collect her thoughts, he grabbed her hand and yanked the dagger away from her. "This is the Cousland family crest, is it not?" He asked, holding the hilt of the knife up to her so she could see the emblem clearly. "I happen to be close friends with Fergus Cousland, and I would also know if anyone stole from the Cousland estate. Which means this _must _belong to you."

He handed her the dagger back. She shoved him half-heartedly, and he couldn't help but smile in response. "Tell me, are you a Cousland, then? A niece? Cousin? _Daughter?"_

She scowled at him. "How long have you been following me, exactly?"

"Not long." He confessed. "I just figured it out a few seconds ago. Nice title by the way. _Grey_ Warden. I suspect calling yourself the White Warden would have made it too obvious, then?"

"I didn't choose the name." She slid the dagger back into its place at the top of her boot. She then shimmied closer to him, every step coolly calculated and mesmerizing. He didn't know hips swayed like that. "But you seem to know so much about me, dear Dragon, and I so _little_ about you."

Maker, was it hot up here, or was she suddenly entirely too close? "I—there's not much to know. I'm not really that interesting."

Outside of the bastard prince part, but really, she didn't need to know that.

She smiled at him. He could feel her breath on his face. "I find that hard to believe."

And then she kissed him.

His first instinct was to run, to push her away and to run straight back to the church he spent the past seven years in. But her lips were sinfully warm and inviting in ways he didn't expect. The leather she wore made it possible for him to feel her _every_ curve pressed tightly against him.

A man could die for this.

Even he needed to breathe at some point, and the kiss was hastily broken.

"Why did you do that?" He asked, hoping his voice didn't suddenly get higher as it was prone to do when he was nervous. "Why did you kiss me?"

"I don't know." She answered, patting his cheek playfully. "Maybe I have a thing for handsome men in masks."

She pulled him closer and kissed him again, a light peck on the lips compared to their previous kiss.

She turned and walked away, her hips swaying gently with every step she took. "Tell Griffin I expect to hear from him in a couple of days. I suspect he knows how to get a hold of me." She blew him a kiss. "I look forward to seeing you again, Dragon. Hopefully under…better circumstances?"

And then she disappeared like a leaf on the wind, invisible to the night.

It wasn't until he got back to the Griffin Cave did he realize that she had stolen his wallet.

Maker, he was _not _sneaky enough for this job!


	4. The Teyrn's Daughter

**Universe Four: **Prince Alistair Theirin is the younger, bastard brother of Prince Calian. And today, he meets his future bride: Elissa Cousland, the Teyrn's daughter.

**A/N**: I don't think Alistair would actually be as emo as he is in this fic, if only because I think Maric and Calian wouldn't let him. However, if you ever recruit Loghain, he tells you that Alistair "would have been miserable, constantly overshadowed by Calian and treated with scorn by the nobles [for his bastard status]. At least with Eamon he had a childhood." I wanted to play with that idea so here's a fic.

* * *

**The Teyrn's Daughter**

He never asked to be born a bastard. It's not like he got up one morning and begged his royal father to impregnate a woman other than his wife. To make matters worse, Lady Rowan had died shortly before Alistair's birth, making Maric _really_ look like a bastard to the public. In fact, Maric almost _didn't_ claim Alistair, almost sent him away to live with Eamon. But when the King took one look into his son's hazel eyes, it was it. He was done for. Alistair would have to stay.

And really, he didn't have anything to complain about. He loved his father and his brother, and he had a good home, the best training and education a boy could ask for.

It was just…sometimes, at these sort of gatherings of the Ferelden nobility, some of the nobles would _look_ at him, like he didn't belong there, like he was _nothing._ Maric's little mistake, like he wasn't a person outside of his illegitimate status. Most days, Teyrn Loghain was the primarily offender, staring at Alistair as though he mocked everything the Teyrn loved about the nation.

Tonight, it was Arl Howe of Amarathine.

Which was why Alistair found himself in the stables of Castle Cousland, brooding, not caring that he was three hours late to his own betrothal ceremony.

At least until _she_ found him.

"Ow! You _hit _me!"

"You were moping." A young lady not quite out of girlhood shrugged, as if she didn't care that she just whacked the prince of Ferelden across the back of the head. "If I wanted to marry a boy who mopes, I would just marry one of the Howe brothers and be done with it. I'm not marrying a grump."

"Marrying a—oh." He scrunched up his face like a mabari pup's. "You're Lady Cousland."

The girl performed a perfect curtsy. "Prince Alistair. Kind of you not to show up to our betrothal arrangement ceremony."

Alistair winced. "I—oh. Father must be angry."

"Actually, he's rather worried. The entire castle is in an uproar trying to find you."

For some reason, her comment stung. Alistair struggled to keep the anger off his face. "Why bother? It's not like I matter, anyway. Just a bastar—"

She hit him again.

"OW! Why would you--?"

She glared at him. "I already told you, I'm not marrying a grump. Snap out of it."

"I—I'm sorry, my Lady."

"Don't bother." She brushed him off, flowering out her heavy skirts so that she could sit beside him. "You can call me Elissa."

Elissa. _Elissa._ It was a simple name, but pretty. He liked it. "Right, that was the name. Sorry, Elissa."

She shrugged as if it didn't matter. "Personally, I'm rather glad you didn't show up. It gives me a chance to get out of these shoes."

She lifted her skirts just high enough so that he could see her shoes and the top of her shins. The shoes were tall, uncomfortable looking and frilly. Orlesian made, no doubt. "Ouch." He winced in sympathy, suddenly rather glad that he was male. "Those look _painful_."

"Tell me about it." She rolled her eyes, sliding the Orlesian monstrosities off of her pale feet. "Ahhh…much better."

He noticed, briefly, that she had pretty toes. They were painted a sky blue.

"So why are you moping about, anyway?" She asked, leaning back into the pile of hay, either unaware or uncaring that her beautiful dress would soon be covered in straw.

"I—no, it's stupid."

She rolled her eyes. "Tell me anyway."

Who was he to argue? "I was just thinking about how pointless all of this is. It's not like I'm ever going to inherit the throne anyway, not while Calian's alive."

She raised an eyebrow. "…And?"

"You don't get it, do you?" He grumbled, a little disappointed that she just didn't get it. For some reason, he _wanted_ her to understand, even if no one else did. "All my life I've been treated differently, just because Lady Rowan wasn't my mother. All the nobles glare at me with scorn just because I'm a bastard. I didn't _choose this!_"

Then he felt it, a small hand curved gently against his own. "I don't look at you with scorn."

Suddenly, he was all too aware of how close she was and it became difficult to breathe. Her hand was on his, and he could feel her breath on his face and _she wasn't wearing shoes_ and if he leaned forward any at all they would kiss and _holy Maker_, how do you kiss a girl? What do you do with your hands and what if he was no good at it and what if she hated him forever and—

"There you are!" Calian called from the doorway. Alistair felt as though he might've jumped three feet in the air. "He's in here, Father, with—oh, hello Lady Elissa."

Elissa's face turned scarlet as she fluffed out her skirts, hiding her toes. "Hello, Prince Calian."

"Brother," Calian asked, tall and lean and powerful, something Alistair always envied. "What are you doing in the hay?"

Alistair climbed out, blushing furiously as he stumbled to his feet. "Nothing! Nothing at all. Why do you ask?"

Just then, King Maric came barreling through the door. Alistair barely had time to think before his father wrapped his arms around him, hugging him tightly. "Thank the Maker you're all right! I was worried something had happened to you!"

Alistair flushed. "Sorry, Father, I just—"

"What do you think you're doing, anyway?" Maric barked. "You've got hay and straw all over you, and we were suppose to have the ceremony _hours _ago. Do you _want _to embarrass the entire family? Oh, I hope Bryce and Eleanor aren't horribly offended—"

"We aren't." A cheery voice responded, and in walked Teyrn Cousland with a smile on his face. "The important thing is everyone is okay." He turned to his daughter and his smile fell. "Pup? Where are your shoes? And why do you have straw in your hair?"

Elissa's face, if anything, turned redder when she faced her father. "S-sorry, Father."

But the Teyrn just chuckled. "Go to bed, Pup. Perhaps we'll try this again in the morning?"

As Elissa brushed past him, sky blue toes dancing across the floor, Alistair made a vow to stop moping. After all, she didn't want a grumpy husband. And for some strange reason, he wanted nothing more than to be whatever she wanted.

* * *

END

A/N: This is probably done. Probably. Hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
